


Wounded

by Inevitable



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:27:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inevitable/pseuds/Inevitable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Carson and Alfred have a little chat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wounded

“Have I made myself clear, then? That there is to be no more of this _courting_ business during work hours?”

Carson looks carefully at them now, at his boys, standing there in his pantry with their hands folded obediently behind them, with their tails tucked securely between their legs. “Yes, Mr. Carson.”

His eyebrows raise, fall. “And can I have your word that _nothing_ like this will happen again?”

“Yes, Mr. Carson.”

He exhales harshly then, appraises them one more time, first Alfred, then Jimmy, makes sure that they mean it, that they’re not about to jeopardise their positions by behaving like school children. It’s ridiculous, he thinks – and he’s said as much to Mrs. Hughes – ridiculous that he has to stand here now and lecture them on matters such as these. He is the butler of Downton Abbey for heaven’s sake, and she is the housekeeper; surely they have more important things to do. Yet here they are, standing together, a united front, and she listens, nods as he gives them a good talking to, gives them the same talk his father had given him.

Well, not quite the same. He never had to be told that he couldn’t walk out with a maid, after all, that he couldn’t be found in a room alone with her. When he was footman, he wasn’t even allowed to _look_ at a maid, never mind escort her to the theatre, never mind fall out with his colleague about her. And even if he _had_ , even if there had been a pretty new housemaid who’d turned his head, who’d charmed him with her rolling brogue, he’d never have gone so far, would never have let propriety desert him so completely.

Still, he relents. They’re young. Still, they’ve no parents of their own. And Alfred at least, seems genuinely sorry.

He sighs, gestures at the door. “Very well then. You may go.”

“Not you, Alfred,” says Mrs. Hughes. Carson turns to her now, looks down at her hands, sees that she is holding the medicine box. “Come and let me take a look at that eye.”

He’s surprised. He thought she’d have to ring for the doctor – the boy is rather a sorry sight, after all, completely battered up, and it would be daunting, he thinks, to have to deal with all that swelling, all that purple and blue and crusted blood.

Then again, he shouldn’t be. She’s always been good at this sort of thing; has always looked after them all with patient eyes, a gentle touch. So he sits down and lets her take care of it, lets her play nurse, watches how she opens the box with a little click, her capable hands pulling things out instinctively, efficiently – an antiseptic, a jar of cream, some cotton wool, a bandage.

She looks up at Alfred, grins. “You’re going to have to sit down, lad, if I’m to reach you. You’re growing an inch a minute.”

With a pained smile, Alfred complies, sits down agreeably and allows Mrs. Hughes fuss over him for a moment; lets her dab the cotton onto his lip, wipe away the dried blood. Carson ought to be angrier, he thinks, considering it was Alfred who threw the first punch. Much angrier than this, considering he’s short of a footman now (because there’s just no way he’s letting the boy anyway near the dining hall now, no chance that he’ll be serving the dinners anytime soon.) Finds that he can’t be, though. Finds that he hurts for the lad, too; thinks he can understand why he did it.

“Me mum used to say that,” Alfred says then, after a minute. “She’d make me sit down when she wanted to kiss me.”

Carson glances at Mrs. Hughes. Finds her regarding the boy with a small twist in her smile, and he’s reminded once again that these children – for what are they, if not children – truly are alone in this world. In that way, Mrs. Hughes and himself had been lucky; they’d had their parents around until they were adults. But Alfred and Jimmy, and Ivy and Daisy, and Anna and Thomas – yes, even Thomas – have nowhere else, have no one else.

No one to give them talks about young love, to clean up their cuts and their bruises, to help mend their broken hearts. No one, just them, and he doesn’t like to think about it much, doesn’t like to cross that line of what is proper, but there are those moments of sentimentality, he admits. There are those moments, like now perhaps, when he could picture the three of them in a different setting, a cottage of their own even, and realises that it would feel right somehow, feel much the same.

So he watches now, pretends for a moment, as he takes in the tender scene. Watches as Mrs. Hughes clucks over the boy, as she turns the bottle of antiseptic over, pours some yellow liquid onto the cotton and brushes it over the scratch near his eye. Watches how when he hisses, she pulls back and puckers those pink lips, blows gently there, lessens the sting for him.

“I know Ivy’s a pretty girl, Alfred, but I’m not sure she’s worth all this trouble,” she muses, and it seems right as well, seems just the thing a mother would say.

But Alfred is shaking his head now, defending his case. “She is, Mrs. Hughes. Only Jimmy – he – he doesn’t treat her right. As if taking her off me wasn’t bad enough, he spends more time parading around about her than making her happy.”

Carson nods. Finds he can understand this sentiment entirely, that he can share his sympathies with the lad. Finds that the pieces are falling in place now. “And _that’s_ why you wanted to leave.”

Alfred fidgets at this, and Mrs. Hughes holds his chin steady, applies some cream on his eyelid, his brow. “That’s right, Mr. Carson.”

He sighs then, and taps his finger once, twice on the wood of his desk. Clears his throat. “I’m going to give you one piece of advice, my boy.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see that Alfred is sitting up a little straighter now, is paying careful attention to his words, is nodding in anticipation, but he looks directly at Mrs. Hughes. Finds himself engrossed in the way she snips the bandage with scissors from her waist sash, how she replaces the rolls into the box, that she can do it automatically and leave her eyes to stare back at his. Finds that he is saying these words as much to her now, as he is Alfred.

“If you want to leave, or pursue a career as a chef, or anything else for that matter – you must do it for the right reasons. Else – else, you might never move on from her, and then the wound will never heal.”

He’s looking deeply into those eyes now, those beautiful blue eyes, and she’s hovering over Alfred with the plaster in hand, but she hasn’t put it on yet, hasn’t looked away from him. She bites her lip, as he swallows, lingers.

“I agree,” she says then, finally, and turns around, looks at Alfred. Clears her throat. “And I’ll tell you something else – in ten years time, you’ll be a professional chef in London, and when you come back for a visit, and Jimmy’s still a footman, who do you think Ivy will wish she’d have chosen?”

“Yes, well, we don’t want him to linger on that thought, do we?” Carson raises his brows at her. “Better that you move on in that time, lad, and marry someone else.”

“Can you, though?” Alfred asks. “Can you really fall in love a second time?”

The question wavers in the air for a long minute then, and Alfred waits patiently for his answer. Carson folds his hands on the table as he considers, spares a glance at the picture frame there, at the pretty young girl he’d once loved with everything he had in him. Thinks maybe that she was his Ivy, that he’d have taken a beating for her, too, but she’s nothing more than a photograph now, a flattened image of a distant string of memories. Looks up slowly from her then, ever so slowly, and steals a look at the other woman in his life, the only other woman, sees that she is anything but flattened – she’s full of curves and soft angles and colour and warmth, and she’s there with him now, there looking at him again, with those blue grey eyes piercing into his own. Realises that she’s always been there, looking after him, after their charges.

Realises that she is waiting for his words now, as much as Alfred.

“Yes,” he decides. “Yes, you can.”

And it’s weightless, he discovers, to say it. It costs him nothing. If anything, it fills him with a warmth in his chest, when he sees that her cheeks have tinted prettily, when she turns her head away from him, sticks the plaster down neatly, covers her smile. So he doesn’t say anything then, when she leans into Alfred at that moment and presses her lips to his forehead, pulls away briskly, shoos him out the door.

Doesn’t do anything but gasp a little, feels the corner of his lip twitch.

“There now. Be off with you, before Mr. Carson scolds me for being improper.”

Carson looks at her, finds himself smiling. “I’ll let it go this once, Mrs. Hughes. Just this once.”


End file.
